


those blessed days

by sinfulchihuahua0602



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:47:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25144918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfulchihuahua0602/pseuds/sinfulchihuahua0602
Summary: Jaskier sits beside him. The soda can echoes as it cracks open. “So what next?”Geralt looks over at Jaskier - at his dark hair, highlighted by the gold light, at the same light pooling in the dips and curves of his skin like honey. The ache in his chest starts, painful with its intensity. “Don’t know,” he says roughly.Jaskier frowns. “We have to do something. We’ll run out of money eventually, and we can’t keep living on quick jobs and my parents’ credit card.”Geralt hums. He doesn’t actually know what they’ll do, but he wants to continue this simple existence with Jaskier. Driving anywhere they want, spending a week in town and working, coming back to the hotel after their shifts and falling into the same bed together. Waking up with Jaskier’s warmth against him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 17
Kudos: 65





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> all of the song lyrics here are from So It Goes by Robert Hallow and the Holy Men.

**34 days after**

“Maybe we could go see the band playing a few states over,” Jaskier says, the idle notes of his guitar ringing through the room. He leans against the headboard of the hotel’s cheap bed, chipped wooden guitar resting on his lap. 

Geralt watches him. He’s gotten better at relaxing, but Geralt still sees the line of tension in his shoulders, the subconscious way Jaskier’s eyes dart towards him occasionally. Old habits die hard, especially ones like Jaskier has made, in bruises and harsh words thrown at him by the two people who were supposed to have his back for the first years of his life. 

Geralt still remembers it - his phone beeped the ringtone for a call at three in the morning. Jaskier’s frantic, panicked voice came from the other end -  _ Geralt, I’m at the South Street bus station and they’re texting me, I don’t know what to do, they can’t find me, please don’t let them take me back -  _ and Geralt’s headlights illuminated the too-skinny form of Jaskier standing alone in a dark bus stop half an hour later, one backpack hanging from his back and his eyes wide in the dark. The rest of the night was driving - driving away from Jaskier’s parents, away from their town, away from everything they’d ever known and didn’t want to know, while Jaskier stared at his phone screen as new messages came in and waited through the ringing of phone calls, trembling. 

That was the first night they slept in the same bed, in a cheap hotel where Geralt’s strong arms wrapped around a shaking Jaskier as he broke down, tears staining the sheets and Geralt’s shirt. And in the morning, they didn’t talk about it, but they continued driving, and if Geralt occasionally woke up to find Jaskier shaking through a nightmare, and if he happened to hold him curled up against his body through the rest of the night, well. No one needed to know. 

Geralt had lost count of how many cheap hotels and dirty motels they stayed at, lost count of how many times they stayed for a few weeks at a job and then left, nameless and friendless. They lived as ghosts in society, invisible and barely surviving, and it was only a matter of time before they were forced to rebuild themselves and create their new life from the shattered pieces of the old. 

For now, Geralt was content to continue this existence with Jaskier.

“Should be a singer,” Geralt says. Jaskier’s eyes dart to him too fast, scan down his body too quickly. Geralt makes himself smaller, less threatening, like he’s been doing since he was sixteen and met Jaskier after the high school talent show. 

“Are you admitting you pay attention to my music?” he asks, and Geralt can hear the smile in his voice, even if he isn’t looking at him. 

He hums noncommittally and leans back in the cheap wooden chair, hearing it creak dangerously beneath his weight, studiously not meeting Jaskier’s eyes. Jaskier’s smile widens and he sits up, one arm bracing his guitar against his lap while the other points at Geralt. 

“You do pay attention! I knew it!” Jaskier says brightly, triumphantly. Geralt looks up and meets his blue eyes that are alight with joy, feels his own warmth well up in his chest. Jaskier leans back again, glances down at his guitar and plucks a few notes, a smug, confident air about him at this revelation. Geralt looks down at his hands again where they sit in his lap. 

“Kinda hard not to,” he says quietly. Watches Jaskier’s smile fade for just a moment before it quirks up again and Jaskier looks up to meet Geralt’s golden eyes. 

“Still knew you paid attention.”

Geralt’s quick glance down hides his small smile. 

-0-0-0-

**2834 days before**

_ “Where are you from?” _

_ Geralt rolls over on his side of the bed to face Jaskier, whose blue eyes are lit by the moonlight and looking at Geralt curiously. He glances down, studies the pattern on the sheets. Sighs, puts his explanation together, and answers.  _

_ “I was adopted,” he rumbles. Jaskier shifts and keeps his attention focused raptly on Geralt. “Me and two other boys were adopted. Different times, but we’re brothers now. Or as close to it.” _

_ Jaskier‘s voice is quiet in the dark. “You’re lucky. Having family that cares about you.” _

_ Geralt thinks about wrestling with Eskel and Lambert in the old house. Thinks about Vesemir’s deep voice breaking up the fights. Compares it to the luxury of Jaskier’s family mansion, the soaring ceilings and grand staircases. The harsh words bouncing off of gilded walls and the sting of blows on bruised skin.  _

_ He hums softly and Jaskier’s eyes fall closed.  _

  
  


-0-0-0-

**37 days after**

Geralt looks over at Jaskier beside him, whose pale skin has silver moonlight dripping from the dips and curves like liquid, face peaceful and soft brown hair fanned out across the pillow. He wants to touch, desperately. Wants to run his calloused fingers over smooth, creamy skin, watch it indent beneath his hands and blood rush to the spot where he presses. 

Geralt makes a soft noise and turns away, rolling over. It’s colder here, staring at the dull gray wall, with the warmth of Jaskier behind him, and he picks up his phone from the nightstand. He doesn’t think about how the surface of his phone case is rough, not smooth, and the bright glow of his phone screen is harsh compared to the soft pool of silver moonlight on skin. 

There’s no new messages, and Geralt sighs, flipping the phone over and setting it on the nightstand as quietly as possible. He rolls to his back, doesn’t think about how in the morning, the ache in his chest will start again, and the world will try to shove them apart. He shouldn’t think of touching his best friend in the way that makes him pant beneath him, shouldn’t think of tasting his best friend in the way that leaves him breathless and flushed. It’s wrong, he tells himself. 

Geralt doesn’t think about it, shouldn’t think about it, and he spends the night staring at the smooth gray paint on the ceiling. 

-0-0-0-

**2826 days before**

_ “My family is the Pankratz, but we own the Lettenhove estate,” Jaskier explains, fingers toying with the pencil in his hand. Geralt hums. “It’s a really old house, but of course we had to buy it and restore it, because we absolutely needed a mansion with fifteen more rooms than we actually use.” _

_ There’s a sarcastic bite to his voice. He falls silent, spins the pencil. Geralt’s golden eyes track the movement.  _

_ “My house used to be a boarding school. Kaer Morhen. Sold in 1953,” he says. Jaskier looks up at him, the pencil stilling in his fingers. Geralt doesn’t look at him, but there’s something playful teasing at his voice when he speaks next. “For the record, we have twenty more rooms than we actually use.” _

_ Jaskier grins and laughs, bright and clear, and Geralt thinks he wants to bottle the sound and carry it with him.  _

  
  


-0-0-0-

**46 days after**

They drive two states over to see the band - Geralt can’t remember the name, but Jaskier spends the drive singing and playing their songs on his guitar in the front passenger seat. They spend their money on gas, on cheap hotels, on fast food, and sit in the back of Geralt’s truck, eating and talking before starting out on the road again. 

“ _ What a surprise, my siren’s sleeping in, and all joy and drunken rituals, without a wink to horror or to sin,”  _ Jaskier sings, voice filling the quiet car and fingers plucking at guitar strings - somehow, Jaskier had adapted the band’s song, played on piano, for guitar. Geralt leans back against the seat, feels tension bleed from his shoulders, lets Jaskier’s voice wash over him like it did the first time he sang, on a stage with light shining over him in an old high school. 

“Nice music,” he says. Jaskier stops and looks over at him. 

“Is this a new thing, you complimenting my singing?” he asks, almost accusatory. “Because if so, you could’ve done it a  _ long  _ time ago, Geralt.” He points a finger at him, which, yeah, that’s definitely accusatory. “No more telling me to shut up. You’ve confessed that you like my singing, now I don’t have to listen to you when you say be quiet.”

Geralt’s lips quirk up. “You never listen to me anyway.”

Jaskier focuses back on his guitar strings, starting up the tune of the band’s song again. “That’s not the point.”

  
  


-0-0-0-

**1034 days before**

_ Vesemir didn’t allow for visitors usually, but his eyes scan over Jaskier, catching on the yellow-green fading from his skin, and he doesn’t say anything. Geralt nods at Vesemir in thanks as he passes, tries not to focus on the way Jaskier is tense and quiet beside him. It’s unsettling, the silence.  _

_ Eskel and Lambert are in their rooms; Geralt told them that Jaskier was coming by this afternoon and, in no uncertain terms, told them that they were not to scare him. Jaskier liked to pretend he was strong - and he was, really, but Geralt could see that he was still hurting. He’d been worn down by the years, until even his strength wasn’t enough to stop the flinches from movements that were too fast, and the way he curled in on himself until he melted into the shadows better than either Geralt or his brothers could.  _

_ There was a bright side to Jaskier, though, a side that was colorful and loud and unafraid. It didn’t come out often, but when it did, Jaskier positively glowed with the joy, looking more comfortable in his own skin than he ever did usually. Geralt loved it when that side came out, did his best to make Jaskier relaxed enough to let it out.  _

_ “Where are your brothers?” Jaskier asks, blue eyes darting around, assessing every threat. His arms wrap around himself. Geralt doesn’t like how small Jaskier looks like this, how quiet and unassuming.  _

_ “They’re in here,” Geralt replies, turns to lead them through to Eskel’s room first.  _

  
  


-0-0-0-

**54 days after**

They keep driving. Jaskier looks up directions to the venue the band is playing at, and Geralt follows them to a small parking lot outside a club. The sun is setting, bathing everything in gold and lighting the sky with reds and pinks as they get out of the car. 

“Do you think they’d let me play with them?” Jaskier asks. 

“Wouldn’t make any money,” Geralt replies, deadpan, listens to Jaskier’s dramatically offended gasp, feels the sting as he smacks his arm. His lips curl up the smallest bit. 

“You’re terrible, Geralt! Honestly. I’m so unappreciated.”

Geralt hides his discomfort at that statement, because it may be said in jest, but it serves as a harsh reminder to him of what Jaskier suffered through at the hands - and voices - of his parents. He doesn’t ruin the moment, though, and stays silent, swings the door to the venue open and allows Jaskier through first. 

The band is on stage already, setting up; the place is moderately filled with people sitting at tables, lounging at the bar, talking and slamming drinks down. Geralt braces himself against the noise, follows Jaskier as he finds a booth and slides in across from Geralt. 

They go through their routine that they’ve had since Geralt was eighteen and had a panic attack because it was too loud. Jaskier’s foot catches against his ankle, pulls it across the floor beneath the table, all while his eyes stay focused on the menu. Geralt taps once against his ankle -  _ I can manage  _ \- and Jaskier taps three times -  _ let me know if it’s too much  _ \- before retreating. 

Geralt picks up his menu. 

-0-0-0-

**962 days before**

_ “Geralt!” _

_ Golden eyes look up from his book to see Jaskier running towards him, phone held in his hand and earbuds held in another. He slides smoothly into a sitting position next to Geralt, offering one of the earbuds. “Come on, take this.” _

_ “Why?” Geralt asks, skeptical. Last time he accepted an earbud from Jaskier, the damned man played heavy metal in his ears at full volume. He’s not willing to repeat that mistake again.  _

_ “I promise you, it’s not heavy metal. I found a new band I absolutely love, I want you to listen to them.” _

_ Something about the excited sincerity in Jaskier’s wide blue eyes prompts Geralt to get over his suspicion and accept the earbud, fitting it into his ear and waiting for the resulting burst of noise.  _

_ Except, it rises gradually, and the singing isn’t at all overwhelming - more soothing.  _

_ “ _ Lay me down my friend for so it goes, see the waning of a grace I’ve never known, _ ” sings the man, in a smooth, soothing voice, and it takes Geralt a full verse for him to realize Jaskier is singing along with it.  _

_ The song suddenly stops; Geralt opens his eyes, not realizing they were closed, and looks at Jaskier. His blue eyes are questioning.  _

_ “Do you like it?” _

_ “Yeah,” he says roughly, pulled suddenly from the entranced state the music had put him in. “It’s good. Keep going.” _

_ Jaskier grins. “Someday I’ll tell you about all the layers, after I pick it apart in my music program of course. But the  _ lyrics,  _ Geralt, they’re amazing! The things I could write about their lyrics…” He trails off, presses play on the music and sings along when it starts.  _

_ Geralt closes his book (it was for an assignment anyway, wasn’t all that interesting either), leans back against the tree, lets his eyes slip closed and the man’s voice and the band’s music wash over him.  _

_ “ _ Know that you will always find a home in me, so no sorrow, no. I cannot wait to see you... _ ” _

  
  


-0-0-0-

**54 days after**

Three hours later, and the band is finishing their last song, Jaskier his fourth glass of wine. Geralt watches him flirt with a blonde sitting at the bar, trading tipsy smiles and probably making a fool of himself more than actually scoring a night. 

Jaskier sways over to their booth, throwing a last flirtatious wink over his shoulder that isn’t returned, before he turns back and slides ungracefully into the booth. Geralt finds himself with a lapful of drunk musician, long fingers curling around his thigh, the scent of cedar and lemongrass assaulting his senses, and pale, smooth skin close enough to touch.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, too slowly. Geralt slides his arm around his waist, pulls Jaskier forward before his head hits back against the wood wall, and patiently waits for him to continue. 

“Did you like the band?” Jaskier asks finally, looking as if he needed to think of how to put those words together before actually saying them out loud. 

Geralt hums noncommittally and receives a slap on the shoulder in return. “Don’t be so - so  _ you!”  _ Jaskier says, almost too loudly. “You should… talk every once in a while. That would help you. Make for better communication anyway,” he adds, lower. 

“My communication is fine,” Geralt protests, tightening his grip on Jaskier’s waist when he tilts dangerously forward. He doesn’t think about how close he is, doesn’t think about Jaskier at all. 

Jaskier laughs. “Your communication is absolute shit,” he says, grinning. “You refused to call me your friend for years because you thought I was only tolerating you. And failed to ever mention that small fact, despite the  _ many times I asked.” _

Geralt frowns. “You only asked twice.”

Jaskier’s brow furrows in thought for all of a second before he waves his hand vaguely and leans against Geralt, head resting against his shoulder and face nearly buried in the crook of his neck. “Doesn’t matter anyway,” he says, warm breath fanning over Geralt’s skin. 

The ache in Geralt’s chest starts again. 

“You’re my best friend now,” Jaskier says, nearly a whisper, and then, a breath that smells like wine, “but wish you were more.”

His heartbeat and breathing even out and he sags against Geralt. 

Geralt hears the breathed words, picks up Jaskier, picks up his expectations, leaves some money and his hopes on the table, and exits the bar. 

-0-0-0-

**473 days before**

_ “I’m writing a story,” Jaskier says. Geralt sits on the ground next to him, leans against the tree. “Takes place on somewhere called the Continent.” _

_ Geralt hums. “Couldn’t think of a name?” _

_ Jaskier shrugs. “No, but it sounds cool, don’t you think?” _

_ He doesn’t reply, doesn’t need to. Jaskier continues anyway.  _

_ “There are monsters, and they’re hunted by Witchers. They’re mutated men, made at a castle called Kaer Morhen, like the school your house used to be. I wasn’t sure if I should’ve named them different, but I decided to just name them after you and your family. You’d make a good Witcher.” _

_ Geralt closes his eyes, lets the sun shine on him and Jaskier’s voice wash over him as he listens to his story.  _

  
-0-0-0-

**55 days after**

Jaskier wakes up somewhere between one state and the next. He groans, hands going to his head. Geralt picks up the bottle of aspirin and hands it to him wordlessly, tries not to think about the electricity shocking through him at the curl of Jaskier’s fingers around his as he takes the bottle, picks up his water, and downs the painkiller. 

“Better?” Geralt asks once Jaskier screws the bottle shut and slides it back in the glovebox. 

“Not sure. May still throw up.”

Geralt grunts and frowns. “Not in here.”

Jaskier groans again and presses the heel of his hand to his forehead. “Can’t be sure about that. Could happen anytime.” He sends a teasing grin at Geralt. “Besides, this car could use some color anyway.”

“Not green.”

Jaskier tilts his head, and Geralt nearly sighs when he can practically sense the mischief light in his blue eyes. “Now there’s an idea. I can paint the entire car lime green! We’d be practically glowing in the night.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “I can paint your guitar lime green,” he says dryly. “It would be practically glowing in dark clubs.”

Jaskier gasps dramatically, pressing a hand to his heart, hangover momentarily forgotten. “You wouldn’t dare!”

Geralt’s lips quirk up. “You wouldn’t dare paint my car.”

Jaskier grumbles and faces forward again, reluctantly conceding defeat to this argument. “Terrible man. I can’t win against you.”

Geralt tilts his head to Jaskier, amusement coloring his voice. “It’s entertaining when you try.”

“You’re an evil man, Geralt.”

-0-0-0-

**432 days before**

_ “Geralt?” _

_ “Hmm.” _

_ Jaskier’s footsteps crunch on the dead autumn leaves coating the ground as he walks up to Geralt sitting, leaning against their tree and takes his place next to him. He puts a piece of lined notebook paper on top of Geralt’s book, scrawled with familiar black pen.  _

_ “What are these?” Jaskier asks, voice holding a strange note, fingers pointing to Geralt’s small, idle doodles in the margin of the page.  _

_ He flushes slightly red - he does pay attention in class, he does, but sometimes (most of the time) the curriculum was boring and Geralt found himself drawing to pass the time, taking notes still but decorating the page with his doodles. He hid them from everyone, but… he gave this page to Jaskier fast and without looking, it was the only time Jaskier had ever asked him for notes and he didn’t want to deny him.  _

_ And apparently he had drawn on the damn thing.  _

_ “Doodles,” he says, clipped.  _

_ Jaskier is silent for a long pause. Geralt looks over at him, slightly concerned - _

_ And finds he’s smiling, blue eyes alight with something soft, almost like he’s…  _ endeared  _ by Geralt? _

_ No, that can’t be true. Geralt never should’ve given him the notes in the first place - everyone looked for the first possible flaw in him and he shouldn’t have thought Jaskier would be any different.  _

_ He pulls the paper away from his book, away from Jaskier, and tugs his bag roughly over to him. “Don’t mock me.” _

_ Jaskier laughs and Geralt resists a low growl. “Geralt, I’m not mocking you. That’s- fuck, that’s  _ adorable.  _ What are the doodles of? They look like monsters.” _

_ Geralt grits his teeth, tells himself he won’t respond. “For your Witcher stories.” _

_ Jaskier gasps, grin growing impossibly wider and the expression in his eyes impossibly softer.  _

_ “You’re doodling monsters for my stories on your  _ algebra notes?”  _ Jaskier says, incredulous, yet strangely not judgmental. No, he’s still grinning, blue eyes still soft and- Geralt doesn’t want to think about that.  _

_ “Tell me about them,” he asks, pleads when Geralt sighs. “Come on, you want them to be for my stories right? Can’t use them if I don’t know about them.” _

_ Another long sigh, a look that is absolutely  _ not  _ fond at all, and Geralt pulls the paper back out.  _

_ “The first is a kikimora…” _

  
  


-0-0-0-

**59 days after**

They drive for three more days, crossing the next state line into Kentucky. Jaskier writes a song in that time, something about a bard and a Witcher. Geralt remembers that story, remembers the weeks spent after that first afternoon listening to Jaskier talk about it, reading the short stories he wrote. He wasn’t sure if he’d  _ want  _ to be a Witcher in that story, but Jaskier said most of the boys didn’t get a choice, and the Geralt of Rivia in his stories didn’t dream of being anything else. 

Geralt found himself particularly endeared to the bard Jaskier in his stories too. He certainly got the constant talking part spot-on - Geralt wondered if the fictional version of him was as comfortable with the constant chatter as the real life version of him was. 

_ “When a humble bard-“ _

Geralt scoffs. “That’s not accurate.”

“What’s not accurate?” Jaskier asks. 

“Humble.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, finger pointing accusingly at him. “First off,  _ Geralt,  _ it doesn’t  _ have  _ to be accurate, and  _ second off,  _ I am very much humble!”

Geralt lets himself give a small, dry smirk. “If you say so. You’re the storyteller.”

“Yeah, I  _ am  _ the storyteller,” Jaskier says defensively, then, gives his own private smile when Geralt glances over, voice teasing, “but you’re right, I am not and never will be humble.”

Jaskier’s smile widens to a bright grin as Geralt gives a low, rumbling laugh and returns his gaze to the road, Jaskier’s strumming and singing starting up and filling the car again.

  
-0-0-0-

**322 days before**

_ Jaskier’s blue eyes are dark, filled with sadness as he focuses down on his lap. “They started fighting again,” he says quietly. “I was in the way, and my mother came over to me. Said the usual - I wouldn’t get anywhere in life, I’m a disgrace to the family, I’m a shit musician. Which, I’m not,” he adds, but he’s not into it and he sounds more like he’s convincing himself. “I think it’ll bruise.” _

_ Geralt shreds the leaf in his hand with his fingers, letting the dead, brown pieces fall to the grass. “You’ll get somewhere in life,” he says, voice nearly a whisper. “You’ll be something great.” _

_ Jaskier looks up at him. Geralt doesn’t meet his eyes. “You will, too,” he says earnestly. “Wherever you go, I will go. Whether I give up being something great or not. I’m not leaving you.” _

_ Geralt thinks of the way the other students look at him. He’s smart, sure, but he’s callous, too quiet, too abrasive. They don’t want him there, don’t want his bulk taking up space when they can get someone friendlier, someone smaller and prettier and better. _

_ “I don’t know.” _

-0-0-0-

**68 days after**

Jaskier leans back against the seat, fingers tapping a rhythm against the wood of his guitar. He looks out the window at the sun, close to setting on the horizon, and the empty, grassy fields passing by them. 

“We should stop,” he says. 

Geralt raises an eyebrow, a thread of concern climbing up into his chest. “Why?”

“To see the sunset.”

Geralt frowns, but he supposes they don’t have anything else to do. They’re not in a rush - they’re four states away from Jaskier’s parents. Jaskier is a poet, too, so Geralt thinks that if he wants inspiration from the sunset for his next song, or poem, then he can’t really deny him. 

“Okay,” he says simply.

Jaskier looks over at him, blue eyes widening in surprise. “Did you just-  _ agree  _ with me? Just like that? You never stop to watch the sunset with me.” He narrows his eyes. “Are you sick? A robot? Imposter?”

Geralt sighs, swings his truck off the road and into the field. “I’m not sick, not a robot, and not an imposter. And I did stop to watch the sunset with you once,” he says, cutting the engine. “Come on.”

Jaskier still looks suspicious, but he follows Geralt out of the car and around to the back. Geralt opens the truck bed and pulls the cooler over to him, handing Jaskier a can of soda and taking one for himself before sliding the cooler back against the car. He jumps up onto the truck bed, pushing himself back so he can lean against the back of the car. 

Jaskier sits beside him. The soda can echoes as it cracks open. “So what next?”

Geralt looks over at Jaskier - at his dark hair, highlighted by the gold light, at the same light pooling in the dips and curves of his skin like honey. The ache in his chest starts, painful with its intensity. “Don’t know,” he says roughly. 

Jaskier frowns. “We have to do something. We’ll run out of money eventually, and we can’t keep living on quick jobs and my parents’ credit card.”

Geralt hums. He doesn’t actually know what they’ll do, but he wants to continue this simple existence with Jaskier. Driving anywhere they want, spending a week in town and working, coming back to the hotel after their shifts and falling into the same bed together. Waking up with Jaskier’s warmth against him.

“We could head to the coast,” Jaskier says quietly, a few moments later. “Rebuild our lives. Become something.”

Geralt doesn’t respond. He keeps his eyes on the burning reds and golds of the sunset, quickly fading into dark, midnight blue as the moon rises. Jaskier doesn’t continue, and they sit in a comfortable silence as the stars slowly blink into existence against the dark velvet of the night sky. 

Geralt doesn’t notice Jaskier has fallen asleep until his head lands on his shoulder, eyes closed and chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He slides his arm behind Jaskier and around his waist, pulls him closer and listens to the soft noise Jaskier gives as he shifts and curls into Geralt, warm breath blowing over Geralt’s neck. 

Geralt’s chest aches. He carries Jaskier into the back of the car and lays with him on the seat, sinks into sleep with him curled up in his arms, face buried in Geralt’s black hoodie. 

-0-0-0-

**217 days before**

_ “You like to watch the sunset?” Geralt asks, walking up behind Jaskier and taking the place next to him in the grass.  _

_ “It’s poetic, isn’t it?” Jaskier replies. “Sunsets are beautiful - all the fiery reds and golds and pinks. It’s the death of light and the birth of night.” His voice is soft, thoughtful. “The sun doesn’t go without a fight, though. It makes sure to set the whole sky on fire and dip the world in gold honey first.” _

_ Geralt hums. “Or, Earth is rotating and we simply don’t see the sun’s light anymore,” he says bluntly.  _

_ Jaskier makes a doubtful sound and tilts his head. “I like my version better, thank you very much.” _

_ Geralt isn’t looking at the sunset, though; he looks at Jaskier. He thinks Jaskier doesn’t need the setting sun for him to be alight with fire, or be dipped in gold.  _


	2. Chapter 2

**94 days after**

A month passes. They’re two states away from the coast, away from Florida. Jaskier has written two more songs from his stories, learned four more songs by heart from the band he loves. Geralt falls asleep with Jaskier in the backseat of the truck more often than a bed in a hotel, skips more meals than eats them, doesn’t tell Jaskier. He only has to make it to the coast, then he and Jaskier can build their lives together. 

At Jaskier’s insistence, Geralt uses his skill at picking locks and disarming alarms and breaks into an ice-skating rink at night. They spend hours skating - Geralt isn’t particularly graceful, but he can skate, and he finds that watching Jaskier dance on the ice, illuminated by the lights and glowing, is far better. 

His chest aches. 

Geralt sits in the backseat of his truck, falling asleep, listening to Jaskier sing his favorite song from his favorite band in a quiet voice, guitar strings echoing in the silence. “ _Another silent spectre that you’ll keep at bay, while I stand raging at a silent sea,”_ he sings. 

They spend three more nights watching the sunset, two of which end up with Geralt carrying an unconscious Jaskier to the backseat of his truck, one of which ends up with Geralt falling asleep right in the truckbed and Jaskier beside him. All three end up with them curled into each other. 

Geralt watches Jaskier, spends the days in a pulsing haze of _want._ His chest aches.

-0-0-0-

**43 days before**

_“Why are you sad?”_

_Geralt looks up as Jaskier slides to a sitting position beside him. He stretches his legs out, throws aside the half-shredded green leaf. Finds he doesn’t know what to do with his fingers after that and leaves them awkwardly in his lap._

_“Did a DNA test,” he says roughly, less forthcoming than usual, even with Jaskier._

_“And?” he prods. Geralt pauses, continues after a beat of silence._

_“My biological family has a history for illness.”_

_“What kind of illness?”_

_Geralt sighs. “Don’t know. Vesemir wouldn’t tell me. He said I don’t have it.”_

_Jaskier slides his arm behind Geralt. Geralt envies the easy affection Jaskier gives, wishes he could give it back so freely._

_He doesn’t know how, but he leans into Jaskier and wants to learn._

  
  


-0-0-0-

**113 days after**

“What do you think, Geralt? Green, or blue?” 

Jaskier holds up the two silk shirts - one a deep, rich shade of emerald green, and the other a navy, midnight blue. Geralt doesn’t understand why he needs _silk_ shirts, of all things, but it’s Jaskier and the extravagance fits him, somehow. 

“Either works,” Geralt says simply. 

Jaskier sighs, rolls his eyes. “You’re absolutely no help.” He holds the emerald green up to himself, glances down and puts the blue shirt back on the rack. “I’ll pick for myself then.”

Geralt waits until they’re both back in the car to say, “Would’ve looked better in blue.”

Jaskier groans and smacks him on the arm. “I’m never going clothes shopping with you ever again.”

“Yeah, you are.”

Jaskier sighs, dramatic and defeated. “Yeah, I am.”

-0-0-0-

**38 days before**

_Geralt really should’ve known that of all the malls Jaskier could have taken him to, of course this one would have the extravagant sweets shop, and of course he should’ve known that Jaskier would drag him into the store as soon as he caught the scent of cinnamon beneath the smell of pretzels and fries._

_“Geralt, fuck, there’s a Cinnabon here,” Jaskier says excitedly, pulling Geralt into the store, “do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had one of these?”_

_The entire store smells like cinnamon and sugar, almost sickeningly so. Geralt always had a stronger sense of smell, more sensitive senses, than anyone else. If it was up to him, he would’ve turned tail right out of this store, let alone come anywhere near it._

_But, it’s up to Jaskier, and Geralt would do more things than he liked to admit for Jaskier._

_“Geralt, share one with me,” Jaskier pleads, “they’re absolutely huge and I can’t finish one by myself. Well,” he amends, “I can, but I only did once and I severely regretted it after. They should put bathrooms closer to this store, honestly.”_

_Geralt fights the smile tugging at his lips listening to Jaskier ramble. He rolls his eyes. “No.”_

_Jaskier groans. “Come on, Geralt, just once? You never eat anything sweet, indulge me this time? It’s_ Cinnabon!”

_Geralt sends a flat look at Jaskier. “I’m not going to indulge you once because then you’ll ask me to indulge you every time after that.”_

_Jaskier’s mouth drops open in offense. “I do not ask you every time.”_

_Geralt simply crosses his arms, leans back against the wall. His lips quirk up against his will and he gestures at the register. “Well?”_

_Jaskier, upon the realization that Geralt can’t be shaken in this, huffs and glares without heat. “Someday I’ll get you to actually do something fun, like a normal person.”_

_“Someday you’ll go up to that register and actually buy what you came in here for,” he retorts._

_Jaskier rolls his eyes and turns to the register. Geralt lets himself smile and watches Jaskier spend far too long choosing a delicacy._

  
  


-0-0-0-

**121 days after**

“You know what I never told you about my Witcher stories?” Jaskier says, completely irrelevant to the conversation they were having. Geralt looks at him; Jaskier looks back. There’s fear in his blue eyes, and something softer, fragile like glass. “Jaskier loves Geralt.”

Geralt wishes he could run. Knows Jaskier wouldn’t let him, somewhere in him doesn’t want to. 

“I love you, Geralt,” Jaskier repeats, softly, like the wind in their hair when they sit in the fields on the side of the road watching the sunset. 

And, Geralt has never been good with words. He’s better at actions; better at leaning slightly down, tilting his head just so, swallowing Jaskier’s noise of surprise by slotting their lips together. 

Jaskier’s lips are soft. Geralt’s hands curve around his waist, hovering, touching, fingers skimming beneath his shirt. He pulls away when he can’t breathe, drops his head on Jaskier’s shoulder. Breathes in the scent of lemongrass and dandelions and honey, is intoxicated by it. 

“Love you,” he growls finally, roughly into Jaskier’s skin. Feels his chest ache again. 

Soft lips press against his. “I know.”

-0-0-0-

**23 days before**

_“Jaskier?”_

_Geralt picks up the phone, fear and panic shooting through him as Jaskier’s voice, rough and broken, comes through the other end. He sounds suspiciously like he’s been crying._

_“Geralt,” he breathes, sobs._

_Geralt’s whole body tenses. Eskel appears in the doorway to his bedroom, concern on his face despite the fact he’d only met Jaskier once. All four of them knew Jaskier’s house was less than welcoming to him._

_“Jaskier,” he repeats, firmer. “What’s wrong?”_

_“Can you distract me?” comes the response, too fast. It’s followed by a quiet hitch of breath._

_Geralt frowns, stands up. His body itches, he feels the adrenaline rushing through him, wants to fight or flee and can’t do either because this isn’t a problem he can touch. “Why-“_

_“Just distract me,_ please _,” Jaskier replies, cutting him off, voice pleading and frustrated beneath the tears._

_Geralt lets out a breath. Meets Eskel’s eyes. Keeps his voice steady when he responds._

_“Okay. Okay, what do you want to talk about?”_

  
  


-0-0-0-

**136 days after**

Jaskier leans back against the seat with his guitar. Geralt takes a drink from the soda can and listens to Jaskier’s voice fill the car, rising and falling on every note, feels his chest ache. 

_“But now and then I dream, so should this could be, another silent spectre that you’ll keep at bay while I stand raging at a silent sea-“_

Geralt lunges forward and cuts off the singing with his mouth, kissing Jaskier softly yet insistent, feels him smile against the kiss. Geralt pulls away, keeps his face close to Jaskier’s chin, breathes the next lyrics of the song against the pale skin. 

_“Those blessed days I’ll keep,”_ he tilts his head back up and recaptures Jaskier’s mouth in another fleeting kiss before pulling back and meeting his wide blue eyes, _“those blessed days I’ll keep.”_

Jaskier’s cheeks are flushed a pale red and Geralt thinks he sees something shine in his eyes. He’s too focused on the way Jaskier’s fingers skim lightly over his hips, though, the way his voice comes out soft and breathy and awed, as if he couldn’t believe he had someone like Geralt. 

“Fuck, what did I ever do to deserve you?”

Geralt lets Jaskier kiss him again, lets his arms curl around his back and follows Jaskier’s guidance down to lay on the seat with the musician above him. 

Jaskier’s eyes light with mischief and adoration and love, hands smoothing under Geralt’s shirt and over the hard muscle, lips curling up in a smirk. He leans down and kisses Geralt again, nips his lip with his teeth and smiles when Geralt groans. 

“Can’t believe I have you,” he whispers against his skin. 

-0-0-0-

**before**

_Geralt hesitates, dials the phone number he knows almost as well as Vesemir’s, Eskel’s, and Lambert’s. He holds the phone to his ear and leans back against the seat of his truck._

_“Geralt?”_

_Jaskier sounds confused - perfectly normal, they never call each other in the middle of the day. Geralt’s eyes flick up to the hospital sign in front of him and he lets out a breath._

_“Geralt? Why are you calling? Is something wrong?”_

_Geralt’s voice is steady. “No. There’s nothing wrong. Just- just wanted to.”_

_It’s silent. He hasn’t convinced Jaskier, he knows, but it doesn’t matter. By the time Jaskier figures out where he is, there truly won’t be something wrong, or there will be. Geralt hopes there isn’t; he checks the clock._

_“I have to go,” he says._

_“Wait, Geralt- this is- what is this? You don’t seem like yourself- you know you can tell me if there’s something wrong? I really hope you would tell me if anything was truly wrong-“_

_“Jaskier. I’m sorry. I have to go,” he interrupts, and hangs up before he can stop himself. He looks up at the hospital sign, lets out a breath._

_He gets out of his car and starts walking across the parking lot._

-0-0-0-

**237 days after**

They make it to the coast. Jaskier makes a name for himself as a local musician, a poet, an artist. Geralt makes a name for himself as a handyman, smart and quiet but friendly, able to do the jobs that need muscle. 

They still watch the sunsets, sit on the cliff by the sea with the wind howling and the waves roaring in their ears. Jaskier buys a Polaroid camera with the last of the money from his parent’s credit card, says _they might as well give me something I actually like with their money_. It’s cheap, and used, and has more than a few scratches and chips, definitely isn’t up to date with technology, but it prints out pictures of the sunset, of Geralt - of Jaskier, when Geralt feels like it. Jaskier dates them meticulously in blue pen and curving numbers, keeps them in a box with the old, worn notebook containing his Witcher stories and ideas (and some of Geralt’s notes with the doodles), and the first music journal he filled up. 

Geralt comes home from stacking wood for the neighbors, surprisingly slightly out of breath. He doesn’t find Jaskier in the living room, doesn’t find him in the kitchen when he calls his name and looks.

Finds him in their bedroom. He looks small, in his navy blue sweater and black jeans, kneeling on the bed with a familiar torn, stained, folded piece of paper in his hand, lined with black ink. Blue eyes look up to meet his, filled with so much betrayal and fear and pain. 

“Geralt,” he says, quietly, flatly. 

Geralt’s chest aches. He stands in the doorway. Wants to run, wants to curl up in Jaskier’s arms. Does neither. Swallows. 

“When were you going to tell me?” 

It’s a whisper, barely a whisper, but Geralt hears it, hears every emotion in that musical voice. 

“Wasn’t,” he says quietly. 

“You weren’t going to tell me,” comes the flat response. There’s no yelling, nothing of Jaskier’s usual dramatics, and somehow that’s worse. Jaskier stands up, sets the paper aside on the bed. 

Fuck, Geralt’s chest aches. 

“I called you at three in the morning. Laid myself out bare to you. Trusted you to be the one I could count on,” Jaskier says, walking closer, voice so, so calm and almost shaking with unrestrained… fear. Pain, anger, betrayal, hurt, despair. Geralt can’t keep track of them all. 

“Three months,” Geralt says to the silence. 

“You’re my boyfriend, who rode with me across half the country to go buy a goddamn house on the coast and spend our _lives_ there,” Jaskier continues, ignoring Geralt. “And you knew you were a dead man walking the whole time. I was looking forward to spending _years_ with you, Geralt. Not- not some, some selfless heroic parody of those years, either, where you slowly waste away with fucking _lung cancer_ and I don’t know until it’s too late.”

Geralt is silent. He’s always silent. Jaskier is silent for a long moment, breathing heavy, but he continues; he always continues. He’ll continue for the both of them like he always has, when Geralt goes truly silent. 

“Well. You have three months,” Jaskier says, quietly, anger gone as quickly as it had come. “I can get treatment for you in that time. It’s not entirely incurable, right? We can-“ 

Jaskier’s voice is worriedly bordering on the edge of hysterical. He chokes off his sentence, tries again with a shaky voice. 

“We can save you. I’ll make a deal with my parents.”

Geralt looks down. “I’m more likely to die,” he says quietly. “More than half do within a year of diagnosis.”

Jaskier sends him a glare. “Dammit, Geralt, that doesn’t help!” He pulls out his phone and starts dialing a familiar number. Geralt can see the sheen of tears in his eyes, reaches out and catches Jaskier’s wrist, lets it drop when it falls limp. 

“Don’t call your parents for this,” he says. “There’s nothing we can do.”

The hand holding the phone drops to Jaskier’s side and he looks up at Geralt with an emptier look than he’s ever seen on the musician before, blue eyes hollow. Geralt hates it. “Then what are we supposed to do? I can’t sit here and watch you-“

He shakes his head, walks over to the bed. Wipes his eyes and sits down. 

“You can,” Geralt says. Jaskier laughs, harsh and bitter and clipped. 

“You’re not the one discovering the person you’ve loved for eight years loves you back, only to have them ripped away from you,” Jaskier retorts. 

Geralt growls. “You think I’m not that person?” he asks, voice harsher than it’s ever been. Jaskier’s eyes flick up to him in surprise. 

“You think it’s not hard for me too? You fall in love easily. Instantly. I don’t. For me, it’s slow, gradual. I don’t know I love them until they’re either gone, or I’d do anything to make them stay. Usually they’re gone.” He stops, pauses. Forces down the emotion, the tears threatening to spill over. “Then _you_ go up on that fucking stage in fucking high school, singing and playing guitar, and then you keep fucking talking and won’t fucking _leave_ and you-“

He stops again. Jaskier is silent, waiting for him to continue. His voice is quieter. 

“You _don’t_ leave, you aren’t scared of me, you don’t think I’m a freak.” He gives a short, humorless laugh. “You even fucking got along with Lambert.”

Jaskier laughs at that, too, clipped and just as lacking in humor. Geralt looks at him, feels like he’s swallowing shattered glass. 

“So we’ll fade from each other. And we’ll make the best of it.”

He ends his rant on a surprisingly soft note, finding a different ache in his chest when he thinks about dying slowly, thinks about watching his future with Jaskier drain slowly along with his life. 

“Okay,” Jaskier says, shaky, and then tries again, steadier. 

“Okay.”

-0-0-0-

**243 days after**

Jaskier takes a picture of Geralt in the light of the sunset, sitting on a rock, white hair illuminated by the fiery reds and golds. He dates it, tapes it to the inside of the top of his photo box. 

-0-0-0-

**273 days after**

Vesemir, Eskel, and Lambert all hear about Geralt’s diagnosis. Vesemir tells Jaskier he knew he was hiding something after the trip to the hospital he took just before he ran away with Jaskier. 

They have a small wedding. Vesemir, surprisingly, has a marriage license and officiates the wedding. Geralt dances with Jaskier until he’s out of breath and Jaskier leads him away from the dance floor, out to their cliff by the sea and kisses him for hours, soft and sweet, and Geralt carries Jaskier back inside when he falls asleep, curls up with him in their bed. They wake up tangled together in the morning.

Jaskier tapes the picture of the two of them at the altar with the sunset picture of Geralt in the photo box.

-0-0-0-

**282 days after**

Geralt stops taking jobs a week after the wedding, spends his time closer to home, doesn’t work as hard. He comes up short of breath anyway. 

-0-0-0-

**298 days after**

Jaskier pretends he doesn’t see the tissues in the trash can covered with blood, forces his smile to be brighter when Geralt starts coughing. 

-0-0-0-

**304 days after**

Jaskier himself sleeps fitfully, wakes up in starts and moves his hand to Geralt’s to feel the warmth thrumming through the skin. Breathes out his relief, falls asleep. Wakes up two hours later and does it again. 

-0-0-0-

**316 days after**

“ _And when it comes back, love, that deep exhausting dread. Your matchstick warrior’s here to carry you up to bed,”_ Jaskier sings to Geralt, sings to his still form, sings to the honed chest that rises and falls evenly still, sings to the rattle in Geralt’s lungs when he breathes. 

-0-0-0-

**319 days after**

“Stay with me, Geralt.”

-0-0-0-

**321 days after**

_“No wonder now, no ghosts, no subtle scented smoke, no crowded trains or crossword puzzles, shows or stupid jokes.”_

-0-0-0-

**322 days after**

Jaskier wakes up at three in the morning. He keeps his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Moves his hand so his fingers brush against Geralt’s. 

Cold. Still. 

Jaskier closes his eyes and cries silently, shaking in the bed. 

-0-0-0-

**after**

He wakes up hours later with dry eyes. Sits up, doesn’t look to his left. Faces the wall as he changes, walks out of the room after without looking at the bed. 

Eskel finds him three hours later, sitting on the floor with the shattered remains of his coffee mug and the liquid itself pooling around him, mixed with the salt of his tears and the frantic, nearly hysterical way he tries to clean it up, broken, frustrated sobs leaving his throat as he fails. 

“I have to clean it up,” he says, “can’t just _leave_ it there, that would be messy and-“

_Geralt doesn’t like it to be messy,_ he doesn’t say. 

“Jaskier,” Eskel interrupts, gently. His fingers curl around Jaskier’s wrists, pull him away from the mess. Jaskier struggles against him, shaking his head. 

“No, I have to clean it up. Let me- please- let me clean it up,” he repeats. “It’ll hurt. Ceramic. It’s- sharp, dangerous, I have to clean it up. What if- what if someone gets hurt.”

Eskel bites back a sarcastic comment and a bitter laugh at that. They’ve all already been hurt, he doesn’t know what a broken ceramic mug would do. 

“ _Jaskier,”_ he says, sharply. He listens then, blue eyes widening as he stills. Eskel reads the helpless fear and sharp pain in the man’s eyes as he looks at Eskel, sighs. Pulls him close and sinks to the floor with him, arms wrapped around him. 

“So much fucking coffee,” Jaskier says quietly, almost normally several moments later, finger flicking in the light brown puddle. Eskel nods, stays silent as Jaskier gives a short, hysterical laugh and drops his head back into Eskel’s chest. 

“We’ll clean it up. We’ll fix it,” Eskel says. 

They don’t move for several hours. 

-0-0-0-

**after**

Geralt leaves almost everything he owns to Jaskier, gives some things to Eskel, Lambert, and Vesemir. Jaskier doesn’t know what to do with it. He doesn’t think the other three do either. 

-0-0-0-

**after**

They cremate Geralt, give the ashes to Jaskier. He offers for Geralt’s actual family to do the honors - they were much closer, anyway. All three refuse and say that they went through their grief, they don’t need to prolong it. Jaskier is the one who needs the closure. They all do, but that goes with the things left unsaid. 

Jaskier holds the bag of ashes, holds his happiness, stands on their cliff alone. 

-0-0-0-

**after**

The next picture taped to the inside of the photo box is taken by Vesemir. 

Jaskier sits on the rock on their cliff, illuminated by the scorching hues of the sunset, black silk shirt and jeans highlighted honey-gold. The wind howls around him; the waves crash against the rocks below. Jaskier’s guitar sits in his lap, head tilted back as he sings out to the sky and the sea, voice rising and falling, cracking and breaking. Geralt’s ashes drift on the breeze, carried out to the ocean by the wind. 

“ _Lay me down my friend for so it goes. See the waning of a grace I’ve never known, know that you will always find a home in me. So no sorrow, no. I cannot wait to see you…”  
_

__


End file.
